Lonely
by Tacosaremylife
Summary: "This ain't goodbye ma'am. I'll be back. I ain't gonna let you be lonely anymore." One-shot


**Hey guys! This is an add on to my one-shot, "The Broken Boy." You don't have to read that one to understand this, but feel free to. Some people wanted more of the Hermit Lady, so I complied this. Let me know what you think!**

You've been restless all week. The date coming up is a dark cloud, looming over you. This is always your least favorite time of the year. The lack of sleep you've been dealing with is catching up to you, but you can't bring yourself to curl up in that bed, so you lie down on the couch and pull an old quilt over yourself. The tattered quilt was his favorite, and sometimes if you closed your eyes and concentrated hard enough, you could pick up his sent that lingered in the squares of fabric.

...

 _The sound of heavy boots echoes through the store. It's closed, so no one should be in it. You quietly make your way to the storage room and find your husband. He tells you to stay there while he checks things out, but you don't want to be alone. You follow him through the aisles, gripping tightly to his arm as he searches for the latecomer. You scream when you see a man in a ski mask going through the register. The man looks up and lifts a gun. He tells you not to move. Your husband tells you to leave. To go back to the storage room. But you're frozen, unable to get your legs to move. As he blocks you from sight, he tells the intruder to set down his gun. The man doesn't move, nor does he lower the gun. He says that if either of you makes one wrong move, you're gone._

 _He doesn't believe the threat. He lets go of you and walks slowly toward the man. He tells him that everything could be worked out. The man doesn't want to work it out. You tell him to stop. He doesn't stop. He's a fixer, he's always been a fixer. You wish he knew that there were some things he'd never be able to fix. There's a pop in the silence of the night. He falls, you scream, the man dressed in black is gone._

You jolt awake, holding the blanket tightly around you. These dreams always come around this time of year. Your hands shake as you make yourself a cup of tea and try to forget. You'll never be able to forget, though. Even after all these years, the image of him going down still plagues your mind.

You look at the picture on the mantle as you sip your tea. He had just asked you to marry him. You were laughing, he was smiling, you both were happy. Back then, you were normal. You weren't broken and you were never alone.

…

The piano mocks you every time you pass by. It's dusty and out of tune. The shiny wood has turned dull and the white fabric on the bench has yellowed. You used to play while he sang and everyone who was over danced along to the music. He wanted you to teach him how to play. You tried, but his large fingers were clumsy and his brain never stayed focused for long. You didn't mind, he was a better singer than you anyway. His voice was one that rivaled angels. It was too bad he had chosen a career in business.

The phone sits on a stand beside the piano. Nobody ever calls it, and you wonder what the point in keeping it is. You have to desire to call anyone, and you guess everyone has given up on calling you. The phone was a useless piece of the modern world, sitting there and reminding you of the life you used to have. You remove the phone from the small table and dispose of it in the trash.

…

You are in the middle of washing the dishes when there is a knock on your door. You glance down the hallway for a second before deciding to ignore it. After a minute, there is a second knock. And then a third. Every time they get louder. Eventually, you can't ignore it.

Glancing out the front window, you see a vaguely familiar looking boy. He's holding flowers, and you assume he has the wrong house. He's glancing around, and he spots you in the window. He grins and waves. Shoot. Now you have to open the door.

As soon as you open it, he grins wide and says, "Good morning, ma'am." And that's when you realize, it's him. It's the boy from September. The one who cleaned up a hood's blood. The one who broke down in the street in the early hours of the morning.

You don't respond to him. He decides to go on. "I realized that I didn't properly thank you for helping me last fall. And with it being Mother's Day and all, I thought I'd bring these over as a thank you. My mom grew them." He hands you the bundle of flowers. They are tulips in an assortment of colors. Tulips are your favorite.

"They are lovely," you tell him, your voice almost inaudible.

He grins wider. "I was hoping you would like them."

You nod, letting him know that you do. He stands there for a minute, probably waiting for you to say something. You guess he realizes you're not going to. "Well, I better get going. I'm bringing my mom and sister out for lunch. See ya."

You wave as he leaves, and once he turns the street corner, you close the door. That boy was something else. The fact that he remembered you after many months surprised you. You had always thought of yourself as a forgettable person. Often times you wonder how many people remember that you still exist, that you still live in this house. But then that boy came along and gave you flowers just because you gave him a bucket of hot water back in the fall.

You place the flowers in a vase and set them on the small table where the phone used to sit. Every time you pass them, you smile. And when they start to wither, you dry them out and place them back in the vase. You want to keep them as long as you can because you need to keep telling yourself that people still care.

…

It comes. The date that you have been dreading all month. You had already crossed it out on the calendar, hoping it would pass without you noticing. But it never does. You go around the house, setting all the pictures face down because you can't stand to look at him today. You make a dent in the couch for laying on it for so long, trying to think about anything but what had happened. On days like this, you wish you had the courage to leave your house. You wish you had someone to talk to. You wish you could do anything to get away from all the reminders of him.

The day passes slowly. You don't eat. You don't read. You don't clean. You just lay on the couch, curled up in a blanket, trying to forget. Eventually, the sunlight stops coming through the window. You try to sleep, but every time you close your eyes, you see the man in the ski mask. You see him dropping to the ground. The crack of the gun echoes in your head. It happens over and over and over again. It's a never-ending cycle, the man in black, the pop of the gun, him dropping dead. You hope and pray that the night will end.

…

It's a warm day, and you have the windows open a crack. You hear the whistling before you see him. You know how it is without looking because it's the tune of 'Jingle Bells.' You begin to wonder if that's the only song he knows.

You are already at the door when he knocks. There wasn't a point in trying to ignore him because back on Mother's Day you realized he wouldn't give up until you answered him.

"Morning, ma'am," he says, his signature smile placed upon his face.

You aren't afraid of him like you had been back in September, but you're not used to talking. When you greet him, it comes out quiet and scratchy. "Good morning."

"How're you doing?" He asks.

"Fine. Do you need something?"

He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a pack of cards. "You know how to play?"

Against your better judgment, you allow the rusty-haired boy to enter your house. He helps you dig a card table out if the closet and you set in the living room. You play a few games of crazy eights and then begin to play poker, betting the cookies you had made earlier in the week. You win for the second time.

"Man, I didn't think you'd be this good," the boys says as he shuffles the cards.

"Why? Because I'm a crazy old woman who lives alone?" Your voice isn't as shaky as t has been, but it hadn't gotten much louder.

"I don't think you're crazy."

"What about old."

He looks up from the cards and shoots you a grin. "You don't look a day over thirty ma'am."

You're surprised when a laugh escapes your mouth. It feels foreign to you. You can't remember the last time you really, truly, laughed.

"Can I ask you a question?" The boy says as he sets the cards on the table. You nod. "Do you like being alone?"

"I don't mind it," you tell him. "Being alone isn't all that bad. Being lonely is what gets to me."

He raises an eyebrow in confusion. "Is there a difference?"

You look into his gray eyes, trying to decide how you want to answer that question. "I didn't think there was for a long time. But trust me, there is. Being alone is something I can cope with. Being lonely is something that eats me up inside."

"Do you get lonely often?" He looks concerned, and you don't know how to process that. You don't remember a time within the past few years that someone had concern for you.

You shrug. "Not as often as I used to. Sometimes though, it's hard."

"If you're ever lonely, just give me a call. I don't ever have anything important going on anyway."

You're about to tell him that you will, but then you remember something. "I don't have a phone."

"Why not?"

"I threw it away."

It was his turn to laugh. "I can fix that. Next time, I'll bring you one."

You shake your head. "You don't have to do that."

He only shrugs. "It'll be a thank you for these cookies. They are awfully delicious." He grabs two from the pile you had won and eats them in two bites. You forgot that men do that.

"You can take them home. I won't be eating them all."

Eventually, five o'clock rolls around and the boy says he has to bring his sister somewhere. You put the cookies in a tin and hand them to him before he walks out the door. "Goodbye," you tell him.

"This ain't goodbye ma'am. I'll be back. I ain't gonna let you be lonely anymore."

You smile. "I wouldn't mind some company. Thank you...sorry. I don't think I caught your name."

"The name's Two-Bit. Two-Bit Matthews." He tips an imaginary hat, winks, and walks off.

Two-Bit. You supposed you could get used to that.

...

The boy shows up a few days later, telephone and empty tin in hand. You allow him to install the phone in the kitchen as you prepare lunch. As you're eating, you ask the boy to tell you about himself. He tells you about his mom and his little sister. He tells you about school and how he's trying his best to move onto senior year. He tells you about his friends who he refers to as the 'gang.' He tells you that he likes to party in his free time, and he admits to getting a thrill out of using the five-finger-discount. When he tells you that, you say, "I hope that's not how you got that phone."

He only smirks. "You ain't gotta worry about that ma'am."

He tells you stories of all kinds. He's funny, and he makes you laugh more than once. Eventually, he stops and takes a drink from his glass. "So what about you? You must have something interesting to tell me."

You shake your head. "Never leaving the house isn't very interesting. I don't know what I would tell you."

"Why don't you start with your name?"

You almost laugh. "I suppose living alone has led me to forget my manners. I'm Lillian. Lillian Roberts."

"You want me to call you Mrs. Roberts?"

"No. Lily would be fine." Lily is what everyone used to call you.

"Okay." He scrapes up the rest of the food on his plate and swallows it. "You know what everyone calls you?"

You shake your head.

"The Hermit Lady. That's what they call you. They say you're crazy and you never come out because you've been banned to your house. Some of 'em even think you're dead and no one knows. You wanna know something?" You don't say anything because you figure he will tell you anyway. And he does. "I used to believe 'em. I used to joke around with all the stupid kids too. You know that day, that day when I asked to use your hose? I was terrified. I thought you might drag me into your house and hold me hostage or something. I was stupid. Real stupid."

"That's okay. I would've thought the same things."

He looks up at you with a sad look in his eyes. "Why'd you do it? Why did you give up living and confine yourself to this house?"

You didn't see that coming. You close your eyes and you can see it. You can see everything that happened that night, years ago in the store. The sound of a gunshot makes you open your eyes. "I was afraid. Afraid that if I kept living out there, more people would be taken away from me. And I couldn't cope with that. So I gave up. Gave up trying and gave up living."

Two-Bit is fiddling with his fingers. It seems like he can't look you in the eye. "You still scared?" His voice comes out as a whisper.

"No. But that's only because there isn't anyone left that could be taken away from me. I pushed them away as soon as I closed that front door on the world."

He looks up and his eyes search yours. "I'm scared."

"Why?"

"Cause. So many people have been taken from me. I don't wanna lose the ones I got left."

"Then why are you here and not with them?"

He bites his lip. "Cause the closer I am, the harder it is to let go."

You place a hand over his. "Two-Bit, the further you pull away, the more you'll regret when they're gone."

He nods, then offers to help clean up and play cards again. You know he's avoiding having another serious conversation. You can only hope that he understood what you said. You hope that he won't turn out like you. Broken and alone.

…

The banging was what woke you up. As you shuffled through the kitchen to get the door, you glance at the clock, realizing it was one in the morning. Whatever the loud person wanted, you hoped it was important.

Two-Bit was standing on your front step. You moved aside to let him in, and you tighten your robe. There's blood dripping down his face and his knuckles were busted open. When you ordered him to the kitchen, you noticed how he held onto his side and swayed as he walked. You made his stand at the sink as you poured alcohol over his knuckles. He gasped and bit down on his tongue, but he didn't complain. As you wrapped them up, the smell of booze drifted up your nose.

"What on earth did you do, son?"

He gave you an innocent look. "Nothing."

"Bull. Sit down."

He sat in a chair and let you clean up his face. "It wasn't nothing too bad, Lily. I just went to a party an' had somethin' to drink. Then mean ol' Briggs slashed my tires and I caught 'im. Had to fight 'im cause tires ain't no joke."

That boy. He worried you like he was your own kid. You wondered how his mom could handle having such a reckless kid. "You're gonna get killed if you keep doing things without thinking first."

He winced when you wiped up the blood from a cut on his brow. "I was thinking. Thinking about how much it's gonna cost to replace my tires."

You sigh, knowing in his drunken state, you won't be able to talk any sense into him. "Does your mama know where you are?"

"She's good. I usually spend the night at Darry's so she won't think nothin' of it."

He keeps holding onto his side and you tell him to take his shirt off. It takes a lot of convincing, but he finally does. He inhales sharply when you press down on his ribs.

"They're not broken. Just bruised. Go lay on the couch and I'll get you some ice." When you enter the living room, he is passed out on the couch. You lay the bag of frozen peas on his ribs and sit down in the rocking chair to read a book. Once you've been woken up, it's hard for you to fall back to sleep.

He wakes up around three, wondering where he is. You tell him he's okay and to go back to sleep. He squints as he looks up at you, and then he gives you a small grin. "Thanks, Lily. You didn't have to help me."

But you did. You did have to help him. Because if you didn't, there are a few other people that would. If he didn't think of heading to your house, he only had two other places to go. And what if he didn't make it there? What if he was still wandering around or laying in a ditch? You don't know what you would do if something more than him getting beaten up had happened. You don't know what you would do if you saw a headline in the paper one day, saying he had bled out in a ditch.

And that's when you realized what you had done. You had done the exact opposite of what you had wanted to do when your husband died. You had let someone in. You had let yourself begin to care about someone else. You look over at Two-Bit Matthews, asleep and snoring on your couch, and you smile. You smile because you don't mind that he's the person you chose to care about.

…

You're dying. You can feel it. You move slower than you used to, and you're often in a lot of pain. Most days you don't feel like getting out of bed. You do, though. You do because Two-Bit is still coming around. He still pops in and plays cards or helps you clean. He still eats lunch with you and tells you about everything that's going on. You only get out of bed because of him. You don't want him to know.

You began to notice things about your house. About the way the paint was dull and the cabinet doors were crooked. You knew when you died, the house would be sold, and so you decided you wanted to start fixing it up.

Two-Bit delivered the paint and willing help you with anything you needed. Within a week, the living room and bedrooms had been painted, and he had straightened the cabinet doors. You watched him carefully while you worked, wondering if he was suspicious of anything. He didn't seem to notice the slow pace at which you worked or the paleness of your skin. He didn't know anything. And you wanted to keep it that way.

…

Two-Bit declared that it was too boring to paint in silence. He turned on your radio and sang along to the new music you didn't know. You just watch him while you work. He nods along to the beat and belts out certain sections of songs. You can't help but smile. Watching him having a good time lifts your spirits and you almost forget why you wanted to fix up the house.

When you turn your back, the radio is turned up and Two-But begins to sing at the top of his lungs. You turn around to see him dancing, paintbrush in hand. He sees you watching him and flashes a grin. "When's the last time you danced Lilian?"

You shrug. You can't remember. Dancing had never need your thing.

Without warning, Two-Bit grabs your hand and spins you around. He has you dancing along within a second as he continues to sing. His dancing style is certainly interesting. He's crazy, but somehow he makes it look okay. At the end of the song, after the two of you had made your way around the stack of furniture in the middle of the room, he dips you so low and your head almost touched the ground. He brings you upward with one quick motion and leaves you gasping for breath and in a fit of laughter.

"You ain't too bad of a dancer, Lil," he tells you as he turns the radio back down.

You wipe some of the sweat of your brow and pat your hair down. "You're certainly an interesting dance partner."

He laughs. "I get that a lot."

"Thank you, Two-Bit. I haven't had that much fun in a long time."

His entire face lights up. "It's always a pleasure."

You wish you had never let him into your house. Then you wouldn't have to worry about dying.

…

It was getting harder to wake up in the mornings. Your bones and muscles ache every time you moved. Your appetite was decreasing, and you were losing rate at a rapid pace. You wondered if you were sick or if these were normal things that happened to people when they were on the way to the grave.

The house had been fixed up. Two-Bit had even brought his mother and sister over to help plant flowers in the front yard. You had only seen them from the front door, but the beds looked good. Katie Matthews and her daughter, Susan, were as sweet as could be. They had the same rusty hair and gray eyes as Two-Bit, and they both had a bit of his humor too. You didn't realize until the day they came over how much you missed female company. You told Two-Bit to bring them over whenever he could. They hadn't had the chance yet, but you hoped they did before you were gone.

One day Two-Bit had realized how slowly you were moving, and he asked if you were okay. You told him you had been feeling ill, and he made you sit on the couch the rest of the day while he cleaned for you. It was a funny sight to see, Two-Bit Matthews willingly vacuuming and dusting the shelves. Normally when you had wrangled him into helping you, he had done it with many complaints. But not that time. That time you could see the worried glances he kept throwing you. You knew he was noticing. But you still didn't have the heart to tell him. You figured it would be easier if one day you just left.

…

"Next time you come, could you drive your car?"

Two-Bit was making sandwiches for lunch. He rarely let you do anything yourself anymore, no matter how many times you assured him you were fine. He looks up at you. "I guess so. Why?"

"I was thinking maybe we could go for a drive."

Dropping a butter knife, he sits down across from you and folds his hands on the table. "What did you just say?"

You give him a small smile. "I said I'd like to take a drive."

"A drive. As in walk out of the house and get into my car and drive around town?" You nod. He breaks into a wide grin. "Of course I'll take you on a drive!"

You thank him, and he goes back to making sandwiches. You can tell he's excited, and you're glad. You, on the other hand, are nervous.

…

His car is orange. You can see that much from the window. Two-Bit waltzes into the house. You can tell he's excited. He had always talked about getting you out of the house. Today was his chance.

"Might want a jacket. The heat in my car ain't too good," he tells you as you head toward the door.

The jacket you pull out of the coat closet smells of mothballs, and it swallows your tiny frame. The thing hadn't been taken out of the closet in years. It always hung there, a constant reminder of the life you used to live. You hope you'll be able to get some of that life back today.

Two-Bit opens the door and steps outside. You stand inside, not daring to step over the threshold. When the breeze hits your face, you take a step back.

"You're supposed to be stepping forward, Lilian."

"I know," you tell him, but you don't move.

"There ain't nothing to be afraid of," he assures you.

You have trusted the boy this long, so you figure you might as well continue. You take a step over the threshold. The concrete step feels strange underneath you. Two-Bit closes the door behind you and hooks his arm through yours. When he takes steps forward, he pulls you along with him. He goes slow, though, allowing you to take as much time as you need.

You take a look at the flower beds. They are in full bloom and have been cleaned up nicely. You take the time to look around at the trees. Walking through the grass is a feeling you hadn't even realized you missed. And the sky. Looking up at the sky fills you with a warmth you didn't know had left. It's like you're walking through Wonderland. Everything is magical.

"You can stop shaking. Nothing's gonna happen."

You hadn't realized you were shaking. You hadn't realized you made it to the driveway either. You were too distracted by taking everything in.

Two-Bit opens the passenger door for you and doesn't close it until you are completely inside. You grab onto his arm as he pulls out of the driveway.

"Something wrong?"

You shake your head. "I just forgot what it felt like to be in a car."

As he continues to drive, you stare out the window. Everything seems so foreign to you, and you want to soak in every last detail. When he drives through town, you notice that most of the stores have been cleaned up and were given new names. You barely recognize anything, and when you see a cat cross the street, you feel like you're dreaming. The only animals you had seen over the past few years were the birds that nested in your trees. And the people. There are people everywhere. You watch them for a bit before you realize they are pointing at the car. They are pointing and whispering. You realize they have spotted you.

"Take me home, Two-Bit."

He glances over at you, eyes full of concern. "You okay?"

"Please. Just take me home."

He doesn't ask any further questions and turns the car around. You get into your house as quickly as possible and ask him to make you a lot of tea.

"People are dumb, you know." So he noticed too. Many things about that boy had surprised you, his attention to detail was one of them.

When you don't answer him, he sits on the couch next to you. "A lot of people know I've been coming here. They ask questions. Lots of questions. And they all think I'm turning into a crazy person. As if I wasn't before." He laughs at himself, but it's a defeated laugh, not a happy one.

"Then why do you keep coming here?"

"Cause. I don't have to put on a show for you. I don't have to pretend to be a joking, happy Two-Bit Matthews all the time. And like I've already said, I ain't gonna let you be lonely."

You place your teacup on the coffee table. As you search the boy's eyes you find something you've never noticed before. He's lost. He's another teen trying to navigate his way through life and he's tired of trying to please people. Except he wants to please people. He wants them to like him. He cares too much. And he's lost. You take a hold of his hand and give it a light squeeze. "You shouldn't ever feel like you have to put on a show. Not around your friends or anyone else. You don't have to be happy all the time. That's not realistic."

"But people expect me to. They rely on me to make light of situations. They need me to be the one cracking jokes."

"People expect too much." You stand up and grab your cup. On your way to the kitchen, it slips from your fingers. Glass shatters all over the floor.

Two-Bit jumps up from the couch. "I'll get a dustpan."

You don't even argue with him like you normally would. You're too tired to help him. When he finished cleaning up, he sits down on the floor near the couch. He looks over to you. "When will people stop expecting so much?"

You shrug. "When you give up."

"Maybe I should try that."

He shouldn't. You should've never suggested it. You were a person that gave up. You gave up and locked yourself away for years, and when you tried to undo it, when you tried to take back pieces of reality, you couldn't do it. And you know that you won't ever be able to. "Don't. Because once you give up, you can't ever go back."

…

You're not a fighter. You never have been. So when you can feel yourself start to slip away, you let it happen. You tell yourself that everything will be okay. You will get to see your husband again. No one will notice that you're gone. You don't have any children or family that you have to leave.

But then you think of the boy. The boy that cleaned up his friend's blood. The boy that brought you flowers and danced with you. The boy who came to you when he was hurt. The boy who believed you were a good person even though you shut everyone out. The boy who smiled more than he did anything else. The boy who didn't think of you as broken. That boy had become a person who cared. He had become your family. And you hated yourself for having to leave him.

But you're not a fighter. You never have been. So you left yourself slip away.

…

You hear him before you see him, just as you always do. Except this time he's not whistling or singing. And he's not shouting because he's excited. His voice comes out quick and concerned. When he enters the living room, you can see the panic in his eyes. He crouches next to the couch and takes a hold of your hand.

"Lilian, are you okay?"

You would be if he wasn't there. You would be if he didn't have to see you leave. But he doesn't need to know that. "Don't worry about me."

The boy shakes his head. His eyes dart around the room. He doesn't want to look at you. "I can help you. I can call an ambulance. I could-"

"Two-Bit, I don't want to be helped. I'm okay with leaving. It's my time to go."

"No," he whispers. His voice sounds small and weak. "I don't want you to go."

You squeeze his hand with all the strength you can muster. "I have to. You'll be okay. Just don't give up, Two-Bit. Okay? Will you do that for me?"

He nods. His eyes are glassy and his voice is shaking. "I won't."

"Two-Bit, look at me." He doesn't for a second, but when you squeeze his hand again, he gives in. "Thank you. Thank you for making sure I wasn't lonely." And that's all you have the strength to say. You can hear sniffling as your eyelids fall shut. And as the very last breath escapes through your lips, you know that the boy won't give up. And you know that he won't ever be lonely.


End file.
